


freak like me

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Communication Failure, Dirty Talk, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: Jonny gasps—not in shock but in solace. Solace at the familiar ugly spark the words ignite and the burning rush ofshame hate shame—solace at the inevitable flood of arousal that follows despite it, spreading through his veins until he can feel it down to the tips of his toes.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 30
Kudos: 68





	freak like me

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags, friends!

It surprises Jonny every time, how much he likes having his hair pulled—likes the sharp, sudden stab of arousal in his gut when he feels fingers tangle in the strands, the even harder hit of it he gets when those fingers _tug_ , like he’s been punched in the stomach by a fist that’s on fire. That’s why he usually keeps it short—he doesn’t know if the heat would burn as bright if he always got those fingers tangling and tugging, or if maybe he’d find that fire fading to a weak flicker instead.

He wonders, sometimes. Of course he does. But it’s not worth the risk of feeling that heat under his skin dim to find out—plus, he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. Life doesn’t work like that—“too good to be true” is a common colloquial phrase for a reason. It’s okay, though. Jonny’s good at enjoying things while they last. So most days of the year, he wears his hair short, carrying the promise of what’ll happen if he waits to let it grow out deep inside him. 

His hair’s long right now, and he’s being rewarded for it. Burning with perfect, brutal heat every time Patrick _pull pull pulls_ with just the right amount of pressure. He’s got Jonny shoved up against a sink, pants pooled around his feet. 

Patrick’s are still on. He’d pulled his cock out through his fly seconds before bending Jonny over—casually, almost like an afterthought. Only gave it a single, cursory stroke before driving it inside, laughing at the way Jonny’s voice choked in his throat and fingers tightened on the porcelain edges of the sink in response. 

Jonny can feel denim scrape against his ass on every thrust. 

It’s a team bonding night, the unofficial name the guys give to the intermittent excursions to bars or clubs where every person on the Hawks is forced into coming out, even the ones with wives and kids. Maybe it’s kind of pathetic, but Jonny enjoys them, looks forward to them—because they mean that for once, it’s his job to get everyone to like him rather than to respect him. So he relaxes in a way he usually doesn’t, lets his tongue loosen along with his shoulders.

“Captain Serious who?” Seabs had crowed, clapping Jonny on the back after he cracked a joke that made everyone hold their breath for a second before they burst into laughter, like they were surprised at how funny it was. “More like Captain Life of the Party!” It predictably set off another round of titters—after all, hockey players are hard-wired to laugh at a chirp, no matter the quality. Jonny pasted on an obligatory self-deprecating smile and drew his shoulders in close like he was embarrassed. Even rolled his eyes and muttered “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” making a ‘lay it on me’ gesture which got him another few chuckles and a light punch on the shoulder from Shawzy. What the guys don’t know is that when he ducked his head down and took a sip of his beer, he smiled around the neck of the bottle, real pleasure curling warm around his chest.

He didn’t expect to end up in a dirty bathroom less than an hour later, hip bones throbbing from the force of Patrick’s thrusts shoving them into hard porcelain.

Then again, he never expects it, this thing with Patrick. Always catches him off guard, even though it shouldn’t. Not after all this time.

He’d been leaning against the bar waiting for a whisky sour, hip cocked out at an angle that would’ve probably embarrassed him a few drinks ago. He smiled on instinct when Patrick walked up to him—and stopped the second he registered the look on Patrick’s face. After that, all it took was a jut of the chin towards the hallway entrance, a raise of a brow, and a quick stroke down the inside of Jonny’s wrist for Jonny to follow him as he weaved through a throng of bodies and walked down the dark hallway. 

It never takes much. 

Jonny gets frustrated sometimes at how easy he is for it. But when Patrick slides in, he thinks “ _oh._ ” Forgives himself as his hole shudders around the breach of Patrick’s cock, because anyone would be easy for it if they felt what Jonny feels when Patrick makes space for himself inside Jonny’s body. 

He doesn’t know if he can ever forgive himself for the way he feels when Patrick starts running his mouth, though. 

“Fuck, Jonny,” Patrick says as he works his hips, voice lowered to hit that pitch that’s designed to make shivers of pleasure bloom across Jonny’s skull. “What would the boys say if they could see you right now, huh?” Jonny had wondered when it would come—had been waiting for it, knot of tension loosening at its arrival with the same sense of sagging relief that comes with releasing a long-held breath. “What would they say if they saw their captain bent over a bathroom sink, taking cock like back-alley whore—because he just needs it that much?” Jonny gasps—not in shock but in solace. Solace at the familiar ugly spark the words ignite and the burning rush of _shame hate shame_ —solace at the inevitable flood of arousal that follows despite it, spreading through his veins until he can feel it down to the tips of his toes. 

“Any one of them could walk in,” Patrick murmurs, voice smoothing to velvet as his words get filthier. “But it doesn’t even matter, does it? You’d beg for more even if the whole fucking team was standing in the doorway watching.” Jonny shuts his eyes against the words, but they slip through anyway, shaping themselves into an image that plays out in full technicolor behind his eyelids. “God,” Patrick continues, punctuating the word with a sharp thrust. “I didn’t even need to bring you to this bathroom, did I? I could’ve bent you right over in the middle of that crowded bar and you’d fucking _thank me for it_ .” Jonny can hear himself let out a hurt whine. His mind offers up a swift kick of resistance, a violent _nonono_ that rushes through him like a crashing wave. But like clockwork, it ebbs away, replaced by a sweet hit of desire, a _yesyesyes_ that slowly pools across like honey, sticky and thick _,_ settling, eventually, into numb acceptance. 

“Look,” Patrick demands, hips snapping harshly as he yanks Jonny’s hair back and tries to angle his face towards the mirror. “Look at what I do to you.” Jonny doesn’t have to look to figure it out—he feels it all the time, even when Patrick’s not fucking him. But Patrick orders, so Jonny complies—just as he suspected, his fucked out, wrecked reflection doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know. 

He comes to Patrick calling him a _dirty little slut_ , not so much because of the words, but because of the way Patrick had said them—like he was speaking in capital letters, stringing them together into a singular, defining title. 

It doesn’t take much longer for Patrick to follow suit—a few short, measured stabs of the hips that stutter into an uncoordinated rut and Patrick grunts, blowing his load inside Jonny. Jonny knows it’s stupid to let Patrick fuck him bare—they aren’t exclusive. But he craves it too much, the rush of Patrick’s come, the tangible evidence of Patrick’s desire—proof there’s a little piece of him that Patrick wants, even if it’s the one that’s bent and twisted and fucked up. 

He can feel it hot as a brand inside him when they make it back to the bar, every shift he makes in his seat threatening to expel it from his body. He wishes he had the hard wood of a chair underneath him instead of the plush, malleable vinyl of the booth, something firm that would stopper up the drip, that would deny the come an exit if it happened to creep down far enough to try and leave. 

The thought of it soaking through his pants—the thought of _losing_ it—makes his throat close up and his fingers go tight against his beer bottle. 

“Earth to Tazer,” someone says, waving a hand in front of his face, the sound of it breaking through the daze he didn’t know he was in, making him blink hard. Everyone’s looking at him like he missed something, like there’s a certain response he’s supposed to give, and he’s not delivering. 

He clears his throat and mutters out a _sorry_ because that’s what he probably owes everyone, if they’re looking at him like that. He even follows it with a smile to help his cause, but it’s too little too late. Sharpy snorts from a few seats down. “Looks like Captain Serious is back,” he says slyly, and the table erupts into laughs.

Across from him, Patrick laughs along, head tipped back and throat shaking with the force of it. 

There’s a few seconds where all Jonny can do is blink, a panicked _no-wait-no_ caught in his throat, grip slipping on his beer bottle as he desperately prays for time to rewind itself by just a few seconds. But reality sets in just in time to stop him from missing his cue again. He musters up a good-natured smile and makes himself force out a few weak chuckles in solidarity, reaching out to wrap his hand back around his bottle. He makes sure his fingers are firm against the glass as he brings it up to take a swig to wet his suddenly dry throat. 

This time, there’s no smile around the neck of the bottle, no warm curl of pleasure. Instead there’s a slow ache starting in his chest—and underneath it, the sinking feeling that he’s lost something important. 

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally the first scene of a much longer fic I was planning to write. I still really want to write that fic, but given the fact that I already have a monster of a fic I'm working on, I don't realistically see myself getting to write the extended version of this fic for a longggg time. So I decided to post this as a one-shot, because it works on it's own, and I don't want it to just sit there and die in my Google docs lol, especially if I never get around to writing the longer fic. Plus, I'm in kind of an angsty mood haha. All that being said, I do have extensive notes and plans for the extended version of this fic, and I reallyyyyy do want to write it someday! But until then, have this! :D
> 
> Anywho, enough with the rambles--You can find me on [Tumblr ](https://tarcanza.tumblr.com/) for updates and also on [Twitter ](https://twitter.com/tarcanza). Come say hi!


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